What If
by Resoan
Summary: What if Cailan wasn't as dimwitted as he appeared in game? What if he knew of the impending doom at the Battle of Ostagar? Cailan's POV, completed.


What If Cailan Were Not As Foolish As Everyone Thought

This was inspired by the Dragon Age: Origins DLC, Return to Ostagar. The man who initiates the quest implies that Cailan knew the darkspawn outnumbered his army and that he would lose at Ostagar. As such, I thought to take another look into Cailan's personality, assuming that he might not have been as dimwitted as he seemed to be in-game.

Spoilers for the beginning of Dragon Age: Origins

I do not own Dragon Age: Origins

Reviews and messages are highly appreciated and encouraged. Enjoy!

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Dogs barking and men speaking distantly echoed in the King's tent, the blond man quietly contemplative for once, his elbows on his knees. The heavy gilded armor remained on its dummy not far from Cailan's position, the tent not as spacious as most in the camp no doubt thought. The light invading the small slit between the flaps of his tent was enough to tell him it was nearing sunset, and the battle with the darkspawn. He had known when he came to Ostagar that believing victory possible was slightly ludicrous, a glorious victory as he had professed even more so.

Loghain had wasted no breath in telling Cailan the danger and peril he and all his men faced, but Cailan must be strong. How else would he outshine the shadow of his father, the one thing to which he would always aspire and would never reach? He had felt Maric's presence guiding his every move despite Loghain's bitter words and Anora's political prowess, and the thought was little more than bittersweet. How was he to be a proper king without proving to everyone else that he was not his father?

Unfortunately, most only saw a lesser form of Maric wherever Cailan was concerned, though the King made no blatant notice of it. He was not blind, nor nearly as obsessed with battle as Loghain seemed to think. Cailan knew what might very well happen, but better to be remembered as a King who tried to save his country from the worst evil Thedas had ever seen than to be remembered as a King who could not quite equate to his godlike father. Clenching a fist, Cailan set his jaw tightly; he loved his father, dearly at that, but he was himself, not a clone of his father, imperfect and unaccustomed to the tragedies of war. True, he had not freed Ferelden from the Orlesians, nor had he claimed to, but what would the harm be in gaining aid from Grey Wardens? Maric had allowed them back to Ferelden for a reason, had he not? It wasn't as though Cailan was going to allow the Empress to fill the streets of Denerim with chevaliers.

Shaking his head with a sigh, Cailan stood, the King taking a few tentative steps to the edge of his tent, his hand pushing away the material that blocked his view from the rest of the Ostagar camp. Duncan remained by the fire, Cailan lifting an eyebrow once the Grey Warden he met earlier approached, her armor bloodied with three others trailing behind her. Shaking his head, Cailan allowed the curtain to fall back into place; he knew the slim chance they truly had against the darkspawn, but relaying that information would do little for the troops' already-fading morale. Better to appear ready and able than as weak and timid in the face of death; better to be a martyr for Ferelden than to be considered a weakling and easily manipulated.

"But enough of such thoughts," Cailan spoke aloud, a hint of a smile on his handsome face. After donning his armor, Cailan appeared outside once more, his sword in its sheath on his back. The steps he took felt as though they ought to take him to the gallows, his dreary attitude disappearing once he approached Duncan and Loghain; the King was more than ready to talk strategy, for what little good it would do him.

Truly, it was easy to appear as Loghain thought him: oblivious, ill-prepared, and irrational. It was true that Cailan had enjoyed fantastical tales as a child, the Grey Wardens being the foremost of them, but to believe Cailan thought they alone would render him indomitable was preposterous. Cailan was but a man, a fact he never forgot while in Loghain's ever-disparaging presence. The Grey Wardens could no better shield him from his own mortality than his golden armor could, the heavy plate nearly more a burden on the field of battle than a boon.

Earning yet more criticisms from Loghain, Cailan instead looked to the woman who had just joined the Grey Wardens. So young. She shouldn't be on the field, Cailan decided. After making his request, Cailan had a plan: Alistair would assume the throne with Anora, assuming they were both willing and saw the benefit of such a union. _Maker help them otherwise_, Cailan released a shaky breath, striding with Loghain towards the troops and what would be a bloodied battlefield.

His papers and the key to them were safe, Ferelden would have a good and strong ruler, or rulers Cailan hoped, and the Blight would be ended. Of that Cailan had little doubt. Closing his eyes briefly, Cailan lifted a prayer to the Maker, asking his death be quick and that as few as possible would die in the imminent battle. The smell of the fire burning greeted his nostrils as the priests walked by, Cailan freezing but for a moment before turning and giving the signal that the archers should fire. The hounds were the next to attack, the King retrieving his sword. "For Ferelden!" Cailan shouted, the massive assault beginning.

Darkspawn were so numerous, Cailan had little trouble finding more to slay once he killed one; their blood covered his armor, Cailan little caring as his unwieldy two-handed sword sliced cleanly through another hurlock.

Strong hands lifted him into the air, the wind knocked from his lungs and the blood pausing in his veins. The monstrous creature roared, Cailan's ears ringing from the noise before a sickening crunch broke through the sound. Realizing it was his own bones, no pain registered on his face before he was tossed to the side like an unwanted toy, though Cailan assumed the analogy was more accurate than he cared to admit.

Breath left his lungs and his heart stopped beating mere milliseconds later, the beast roaring once more before Duncan pierced its grotesquely-muscular chest numerous times, the beast finally falling but not without injuring the Commander of the Grey.

Duncan stumbled to Cailan at that moment, his eyes wide and disbelieving, an arm cradling his wounded abdomen. _Maker take you, King Cailan_, Duncan murmured internally, his dark eyes lifting in time to see the darkspawn's axe raised high before it come down like the chopping block.

Who should remember an out-shined and supposedly foolish king?


End file.
